October 17, 2000
It was already a very special autumn day with my cousins Jimmy Slats & Danny Sielatycki joining me at Kalamazoo Country Club for a round of family golf. This was the first, last, and only time that I hosted two of my favorite cousins at my home course. It was a beautiful fall day with the leaves in full color as we strolled down the first fairway as a threesome. The day was perfect.
Hole #2 is a 155 yard masterpiece. As with all par 3's, I pulled my father's Shakespeare Wonder Club 6 iron from my bag, we shared a sip of Jim Beam from the bottle in his honor, toasted the Heavens, and splashed a bit of bourbon on the clubface. Many of you have shared in this tradition with me over the past many years! It's just a way to continue to include my father in my life and a reminder of what a great man he was to so many. John Sielatycki was a world war II veteran with a purple heart who raised a family of 7 with his adoring wife Dolly. He was also a larger than life community icon for his leadership role as a parole officer. He died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack on March 30, 1976.
My Dad's Shakespeare club with it's fiberglass shaft, originally endorsed by Gary Player, is unpredictable at best. However, this time, on this day, the result was "a perfect hit with an imperfect swing" that sent the ball sailing high into the sky. Silence in the cool morning air and a fresh breeze floated the ball towards the front left pin at exactly 11:11am. This "Molitor 3" ball stuck and skipped just past the hole and slowly rolled back. The entire planet was in slow motion as the ball hovered on the edge of the cup before finally disappearing as it collapsed into eternity. Shock and jubilation followed as time stood still. I jumped into the arms of my family with the 6 iron raised towards the heavens. We shared a good family cry on the tee box. It is a moment I will never forget. A kiss to the clubface made it official. My father finally made his hole-in-one.
I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment that can only happen from a fathers approval. It had been 24 years since since he died of a massive heart attack when I was only 9 years old. His presence was at this moment in time was palpable. As I drove down the hill toward the green, I realized at that moment that the seat next to me in the golf cart was not empty...for it never had been. Indeed, we found our fourth that day and he has been riding beside us just like he has been for all these many years. My dad would have been 78 years old and that was the score I posted on that fateful day in Kalamazoo with a beautiful and unforgettable 1 on the scorecard.
Tom Sielatycki
Hole #2 is a 155 yard masterpiece. As with all par 3's, I pulled my father's Shakespeare Wonder Club 6 iron from my bag, we shared a sip of Jim Beam from the bottle in his honor, toasted the Heavens, and splashed a bit of bourbon on the clubface. Many of you have shared in this tradition with me over the past many years! It's just a way to continue to include my father in my life and a reminder of what a great man he was to so many. John Sielatycki was a world war II veteran with a purple heart who raised a family of 7 with his adoring wife Dolly. He was also a larger than life community icon for his leadership role as a parole officer. He died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack on March 30, 1976.
My Dad's Shakespeare club with it's fiberglass shaft, originally endorsed by Gary Player, is unpredictable at best. However, this time, on this day, the result was "a perfect hit with an imperfect swing" that sent the ball sailing high into the sky. Silence in the cool morning air and a fresh breeze floated the ball towards the front left pin at exactly 11:11am. This "Molitor 3" ball stuck and skipped just past the hole and slowly rolled back. The entire planet was in slow motion as the ball hovered on the edge of the cup before finally disappearing as it collapsed into eternity. Shock and jubilation followed as time stood still. I jumped into the arms of my family with the 6 iron raised towards the heavens. We shared a good family cry on the tee box. It is a moment I will never forget. A kiss to the clubface made it official. My father finally made his hole-in-one.
I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment that can only happen from a fathers approval. It had been 24 years since since he died of a massive heart attack when I was only 9 years old. His presence was at this moment in time was palpable. As I drove down the hill toward the green, I realized at that moment that the seat next to me in the golf cart was not empty...for it never had been. Indeed, we found our fourth that day and he has been riding beside us just like he has been for all these many years. My dad would have been 78 years old and that was the score I posted on that fateful day in Kalamazoo with a beautiful and unforgettable 1 on the scorecard.
Tom Sielatycki
July 14, 2023 — The Legacy Lives On
Some moments don’t repeat. Or at least…we never expected it. Twenty-three years had passed since that incredible autumn morning in 2000. Life had moved forward...careers, responsibilities, time doing what it always does: stretching the distance between memories. And yet, one thing never changed.
The ritual. The par 3 tribute. The Jim Beam.
What began as a special moment between a son and his father had grown into something bigger. Hundreds… then thousands… of toasts over the years. Friends. Family. Strangers. Alligators. Etc. who became part of something they didn’t fully understand, but felt it's importance.
And on this day in July, it came full circle.
I stood on the first tee at Arcadia Bluffs Golf Club, staring out over one of the most breathtaking landscapes in golf. Lake Michigan stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs, the wind carried stories across the fairways, and the course itself felt almost sacred, like a place where something important was meant to happen.
But this day wasn’t about me. It was about them. My son. My father.
My son, Jack, officially John, named after my father. A name passed down not just in memory, but in meaning. Jack was born in 2002, just two years after that first hole-in-one and 26 years after my father had passed in 1976. Jack had grown up hearing the story, living the ritual, watching the quiet reverence every time I pulled that club from the bag. And now, he was here...walking beside me.
On the first tee, just as we were about to begin, his phone rang. He answered. Everything changed. The Northwoods Baseball League was calling.
An opportunity. A dream. The kind of call every young ballplayer waits for. After years of work as the underdog, he was going to play baseball at a high level.
Right there, on that tee box, time paused again...but in a different way. Pride flooded in. The overwhelming kind that fills your chest and refuses to stay contained.
We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. We just started our round with our chests full and extra hop in our steps. Down the first fairway, celebrating in that simple, perfect way...father and son, side by side, carrying something much bigger than the game itself. I birdied that opening hole, but the score didn’t matter. The news of the day had already delivered something unforgettable.
We were paired with two men from Houston. Strangers at first. Just another round, another pairing. Or so it seemed. By the time we reached the par 3 second hole, the story came out, as it always does.
The club. The tradition. My father. The bourbon.
We raised it skyward and toasted John Sielatycki, a World War II veteran, a father, a baseball fan, a man whose presence somehow still shaped moments like this decades later. One of the men from Houston stepped forward, quiet at first. Then he spoke about his own father, recently passed. A Vietnam War veteran. His voice carried weight. You could hear it. His friend joined the tribute to raise the bottle to his own late father. And just like that, the circle widened. It wasn’t just my story anymore. It was snapshot in time that was already memorable.
Four men. Two generations. One moment. We drank. We honored. We remembered.
The golf continued with the Houston gents hitting brilliant shots to within 5 feet of the hole. Then it was my turn. The Shakespeare Wonder Club 6 iron. The same one. Still unpredictable. Still imperfect. Still my dad's original grip.
I stepped up to the tee. No expectations. No pressure. Just the same quiet intention as always...to include him. The swing came. Not perfect. Never perfect. The ball rose into the clouds, climbing against the backdrop of a bright blue sky, hanging in the air just long enough to make everyone hold their breath. It moved with purpose...like it already knew the ending.
We watched. No one spoke. Again. It landed. Spun right. One hop. Tracking. Straight at the flag. And then...Gone. A second and stunning hole-in-one. Same club. Same ritual. But this time…My son was standing beside me.
Jack (John) Sielatycki...named after the man we had just toasted.
For a moment, no one moved. Then it hit us all at once. Laughter. Shock. Disbelief. Celebration. And something deeper...something none of us could quite put into words. I turned to Jack and we high fived and hugged. The same connection I had felt 23 years earlier with my two beloved cousins. And in that moment, three generations stood together on that tee box. My dad. Me. My son.
The legacy didn’t just continue that day. It revealed itself. The Houston golfers wiped their eyes. No one tried to hide it anymore. These weren’t just golf shots. These were moments that don’t happen twice. Except… somehow, they did.
I kissed the clubface again. Same as before.
But this time, it meant something new.
This wasn’t just about a son finding his father. It was about a father cherishing the presense of his son. It was about honoring the man who left us way too soon but
realizing again, that he never really left us.
The ritual. The par 3 tribute. The Jim Beam.
What began as a special moment between a son and his father had grown into something bigger. Hundreds… then thousands… of toasts over the years. Friends. Family. Strangers. Alligators. Etc. who became part of something they didn’t fully understand, but felt it's importance.
And on this day in July, it came full circle.
I stood on the first tee at Arcadia Bluffs Golf Club, staring out over one of the most breathtaking landscapes in golf. Lake Michigan stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs, the wind carried stories across the fairways, and the course itself felt almost sacred, like a place where something important was meant to happen.
But this day wasn’t about me. It was about them. My son. My father.
My son, Jack, officially John, named after my father. A name passed down not just in memory, but in meaning. Jack was born in 2002, just two years after that first hole-in-one and 26 years after my father had passed in 1976. Jack had grown up hearing the story, living the ritual, watching the quiet reverence every time I pulled that club from the bag. And now, he was here...walking beside me.
On the first tee, just as we were about to begin, his phone rang. He answered. Everything changed. The Northwoods Baseball League was calling.
An opportunity. A dream. The kind of call every young ballplayer waits for. After years of work as the underdog, he was going to play baseball at a high level.
Right there, on that tee box, time paused again...but in a different way. Pride flooded in. The overwhelming kind that fills your chest and refuses to stay contained.
We didn’t say much. We didn’t need to. We just started our round with our chests full and extra hop in our steps. Down the first fairway, celebrating in that simple, perfect way...father and son, side by side, carrying something much bigger than the game itself. I birdied that opening hole, but the score didn’t matter. The news of the day had already delivered something unforgettable.
We were paired with two men from Houston. Strangers at first. Just another round, another pairing. Or so it seemed. By the time we reached the par 3 second hole, the story came out, as it always does.
The club. The tradition. My father. The bourbon.
We raised it skyward and toasted John Sielatycki, a World War II veteran, a father, a baseball fan, a man whose presence somehow still shaped moments like this decades later. One of the men from Houston stepped forward, quiet at first. Then he spoke about his own father, recently passed. A Vietnam War veteran. His voice carried weight. You could hear it. His friend joined the tribute to raise the bottle to his own late father. And just like that, the circle widened. It wasn’t just my story anymore. It was snapshot in time that was already memorable.
Four men. Two generations. One moment. We drank. We honored. We remembered.
The golf continued with the Houston gents hitting brilliant shots to within 5 feet of the hole. Then it was my turn. The Shakespeare Wonder Club 6 iron. The same one. Still unpredictable. Still imperfect. Still my dad's original grip.
I stepped up to the tee. No expectations. No pressure. Just the same quiet intention as always...to include him. The swing came. Not perfect. Never perfect. The ball rose into the clouds, climbing against the backdrop of a bright blue sky, hanging in the air just long enough to make everyone hold their breath. It moved with purpose...like it already knew the ending.
We watched. No one spoke. Again. It landed. Spun right. One hop. Tracking. Straight at the flag. And then...Gone. A second and stunning hole-in-one. Same club. Same ritual. But this time…My son was standing beside me.
Jack (John) Sielatycki...named after the man we had just toasted.
For a moment, no one moved. Then it hit us all at once. Laughter. Shock. Disbelief. Celebration. And something deeper...something none of us could quite put into words. I turned to Jack and we high fived and hugged. The same connection I had felt 23 years earlier with my two beloved cousins. And in that moment, three generations stood together on that tee box. My dad. Me. My son.
The legacy didn’t just continue that day. It revealed itself. The Houston golfers wiped their eyes. No one tried to hide it anymore. These weren’t just golf shots. These were moments that don’t happen twice. Except… somehow, they did.
I kissed the clubface again. Same as before.
But this time, it meant something new.
This wasn’t just about a son finding his father. It was about a father cherishing the presense of his son. It was about honoring the man who left us way too soon but
realizing again, that he never really left us.